20. Finn #2
The opposing roster thrives on aggressive, punishing hits, so surviving the first round requires total synchronization on the ice.
If Victor skates onto the rink distracted by his own guilt, he ruins our offensive line.
Hesitating for half a second because his head is stuck in a hotel room will cost us goals
Fixing this mess falls on my shoulders. Smoothing over the rough patches and repairing the broken bridges remains my job.
Victor has hidden enough behind his trauma and his books.
Confronting him in the hotel suite risks a shouting match Olive doesn't need to hear, so I plan to corner him at the arena before the game tonight.
The concrete tunnels of the away arena smell like stale beer, frozen ice, and unfiltered hostility.
Hostile crowds scream insults through the walls, sending noise vibrating against my eardrums as we walk toward the visitor's locker room. The chaos feels electric, mostly because the hatred of an away crowd fuels the fire.
We push through the double doors into the locker room.
The space feels cramped compared to our home turf. Equipment managers already hung our gold and black jerseys in our respective stalls. Fresh hockey tape, sweat, and adrenaline scent the air.
Walking over to my stall, dropping my gear bag onto the bench kicks off the meticulous process of strapping on my pads. Goalies require twice the armor, so securing the thick leg pads and double-checking the leather straps takes priority before glancing across the room.
Victor sits at his stall holding a roll of white athletic tape, wrapping the blade of his stick with tight, aggressive pulls.
Looking tightly wound, his jaw clenches while his eyes stare a hole into the composite carbon fiber of his stick.
The sour, miserable edge of his scent cuts right through the smell of the locker room.
I leave my blocker glove on the bench, stride across the rubber-matted floor, and grab the back of Victor's jersey to haul him up.
"Hey." Victor scowls, ripping his jersey out of my grip. "Watch the hands."
"Grab your stick." Keeping my voice low drops the easy-going smile entirely. "We need to talk."
Narrowing his eyes, Victor reads the shift in my posture and grabs his taped stick to follow me toward the back of the locker room.
Stepping into the quiet stick-prep room leaves the noise of the main locker area behind. The door clicks shut.
"You need to fix this." Turning around forces him to face me.
Victor crosses his arms, adopting his usual arrogant stance. "Fix what? My wrist shot looks fine."
"I don't give a damn about your wrist shot." Stepping forward to invade his personal space drops the gentle peacemaker act. "I care about the pack. You act like a miserable ghost, and it throws the entire dynamic off balance."
Victor glares at me. "I stay out of her way. I give her space. That keeps the pack peaceful."
"It makes her cry." Delivering the truth hits with brutal honesty.
Victor flinches. The arrogant mask shatters, draining the color from his face. "She cries?"
"She watches the hallway waiting for you to walk out of that guest room." Pointing a finger at his chest lays it all out. "She wants you, Victor. She saw the picture Elena sent her and knows you went back to apologize to Sam. She sees the work you put in, but your distance hurts her."
Looking away to stare at the cinderblock wall, Victor's chest heaves with a jagged breath.
"I tried to use an Alpha Command on her in a parking lot." His voice sounds hollow and wrecked. "Acting like a dictator and screaming at her ruined any chance I had."
"You fucked up." Agreeing without hesitation feels necessary. "You made a huge mistake. You let your fear turn into toxic rage. But hiding in a bedroom doesn't fix it. It just makes you a coward."
His head snaps back. Icy blue eyes flash with sudden fury.
"You think I want to hide?" Victor steps forward with his hands forming tight fists. "Sleeping in an empty room while you, Malcolm, and Lawrence knot our Omega kills me. But my temper makes me dangerous, and if I lose control again, I ruin her life."
"Therapy protects her." Holding my ground means refusing to back down. "You pay a professional a ridiculous amount of money to fix your head and read the books. Now use the coping mechanisms and apply the damn work."
Victor swallows hard, his fists shaking at his sides.
"You hold the final piece of the puzzle." Lowering my voice shifts the tone from anger to a firm plea. "Malcolm offers her structure. Lawrence offers her charm. I offer her comfort. But she needs your fire. She needs the entire pack to feel complete. You staying away keeps her off balance."
"I don't know how to bridge the gap." The admission costs him every ounce of his pride.
"She already built the bridge." Reaching out to grip his shoulder. "She pulled the three of us aside this morning. She wants alone time with you after the game, so we plan to clear out of the master suite tonight."
Shock wipes the misery right off his face. "She asked for me?"
"She wants her center." I point a firm finger at his chest. "You use your words. You walk into the master suite tonight. You look her in the eye. You apologize for the parking lot, and you tell her the truth about your sister. Stop running, Victor."
Looking down at his taped hockey stick, he takes a slow, deep breath to pull his chaotic scent back under control. The sour tang of regret fades, replaced by a focused, chilled juniper.
He nods once. "Tonight."
"Tonight." Squeezing his shoulder, I let go. "Now get your head in the game. We have a playoff match to win."
Turning to walk out of the stick-prep room, the tension in my neck vanishes. Setting the wheels in motion feels good, and even though earning her forgiveness falls entirely on his shoulders now, I finally forced him to step up to the plate.